Where Does the Good Go, House, House/Cameron, PG
Title: Where Does the Good Go
Fandom: House, MD
Pairing: House/Cameron
Rating: PG
Notes: Unfinished. Unlikely to be finished because there's this other hospital drama eating my brain right now. Wonder whose fault that is. But in honor of holycitygirl finishing Season 1, she can now have some of my bad House/Cameron snippets that occur post "Love Hurts." There was too much corny involved for me to find an ending for this.
"What are you doing Friday night? And before you start, just answer. No psychoanalysis."
House blinked at her, momentarily caught off guard before regaining his footing. "Nothing. Am I allowed to ask why you're suddenly so interested in my nocturnal habits or does that fall under the aforementioned psychoanalysis clause?"
"My brother sent me two tickets to a jazz concert in the city that he won in a radio contest or something, but he can't make it. I'm the only person he could find who doesn't have plans already. And you're the only person I can find who doesn't have plans and can accompany me."
"Are you asking me on a date?"
She opened her mouth to protest, but stopped. "What if I am?"
"Then I would suggest that you've clearly forgotten the last date we had. A CAT scan might be in order."
She crossed the office and seated herself in the chair across from his desk. "I haven't forgotten. I just wanted another shot. That night...was unfair to all parties involved. You were uncomfortable so you felt the need to make me uncomfortable."
"Clearly this psychoanalysis rule only works one way."
"Look, it's a free concert ticket. I just thought it would be fun. Like the monster trucks. It doesn't have to be a date." She shrugged. "You don't even have to wear a tie."
House continued to sit, silently contemplating the dust on his desk.
Cameron rolled her eyes and stood up. "Nevermind. I'll just put the other ticket on E-Bay or something."
House watched her stride across the office and back out the door to the conference room where she began collecting the dirty coffee mugs the team had left scattered around the table that morning.
He crossed to the door that linked his office with the conference room and leaned against the jamb.
"You don't have to do that, you know," he told her as she began washing out the mugs.
"If I don't do it, it won't get done." She looked at him pointedly. "No one else seems to give a crap."
"Ooh, now we're speaking in metaphors. I like this game. So if you're little Miss Fix It, so that must make me the mug?"
Cameron didn't smile. "That's right, House. You're the mug."
She pulled the mug out from under the faucet and shook off a few drops before turning abruptly and hurling it against the opposite wall.
House cocked his head to one side and pressed his lips together. "Now was that my leg or the date?"
Cameron ignored him. "See that?" She gestured to the red shards of glass that now littered the carpet and her desk. "I can't fix that. It's over, done, beyond repair. I know that. Doesn't mean I'm just going to leave it there for someone to cut themselves on."
"It's not your job to clean it up," House told her, forcing a shrug.
"I don't do it because it's my job. I do it because that's what any decent human being would do."
House looked away from her, shifted the grip on his cane. "So you sweep it up. You feel really good about yourself, but old mug here still ends up in the garbage at the end of the day."
Cameron shrugged and picked up one of the shattered pieces. "Maybe not. Maybe I make mosaics. One broken piece can complement another." She spun around and looked at him with narrowed eyes before he could make a comment. "But it doesn't matter because the mug is so determined to cut me whenever I go near it, that maybe I'm beginning to understand why everyone else is so eager to dump it in the trash."
The conversation had gone so far beyond ridiculous that even House couldn't make jokes. But somehow the absurdity of how they were discussing things made it easier for him to stay serious about what they were discussing.
"The mug's not trying to cut you. That's just what happens when you touch broken glass. And you seem to be the only idiot in the world who doesn't know that."
"So Stacy had the right idea? Abandon a sinking ship?"
House smirked slightly. "I thought we were talking about mugs."
"House."
"Hey, I'm just a mug. You start mixing metaphors and a simple-minded ceramic like me is bound to get confused. Lose the ships, sinking or otherwise."
"I've told you a hundred times: I don't want to change you. I don't want to fix you. I don't want you to pretend to be someone you're not. I like you. I like that you help people and that you're good at it. I like that you're funny. I like that you never say or do what people expect. You know that."
"I know that," he confirmed. "Though you understand why I doubt your sanity because of it."
"So can I ask you one question and can you for once give me a straight-up, honest answer?"
"Okay."
"What are you afraid of?"
He immediately regretted promising her honesty. He cleared his throat, trying to think of a lie she would believe. But he knew that somewhere along the way, she'd developed the ability to tell when he was lying to her.
"What are you afraid of?" she asked again, her hands on her hips, broken mug forgotten, or possibly the center of her attention.
"That maybe tomorrow or next month or next year, you'll wake up and you won't like those things. You'll hate that I'm twenty years older than you, that I was born without the ability to be nice, that I never admit that I'm wrong. And when that day comes, as it inevitably will, I'm afraid...."
"That I'll leave you?" she finished for him.
He said nothing as he watched the floor. He silently begged for their patient to crash, willed his beeper to go off.
"So you're basing your entire opinion of a hypothetical relationship on something you're afraid may happen at some unknown point in the future?"
Fandom: House, MD
Pairing: House/Cameron
Rating: PG
Notes: Unfinished. Unlikely to be finished because there's this other hospital drama eating my brain right now. Wonder whose fault that is. But in honor of holycitygirl finishing Season 1, she can now have some of my bad House/Cameron snippets that occur post "Love Hurts." There was too much corny involved for me to find an ending for this.
"What are you doing Friday night? And before you start, just answer. No psychoanalysis."
House blinked at her, momentarily caught off guard before regaining his footing. "Nothing. Am I allowed to ask why you're suddenly so interested in my nocturnal habits or does that fall under the aforementioned psychoanalysis clause?"
"My brother sent me two tickets to a jazz concert in the city that he won in a radio contest or something, but he can't make it. I'm the only person he could find who doesn't have plans already. And you're the only person I can find who doesn't have plans and can accompany me."
"Are you asking me on a date?"
She opened her mouth to protest, but stopped. "What if I am?"
"Then I would suggest that you've clearly forgotten the last date we had. A CAT scan might be in order."
She crossed the office and seated herself in the chair across from his desk. "I haven't forgotten. I just wanted another shot. That night...was unfair to all parties involved. You were uncomfortable so you felt the need to make me uncomfortable."
"Clearly this psychoanalysis rule only works one way."
"Look, it's a free concert ticket. I just thought it would be fun. Like the monster trucks. It doesn't have to be a date." She shrugged. "You don't even have to wear a tie."
House continued to sit, silently contemplating the dust on his desk.
Cameron rolled her eyes and stood up. "Nevermind. I'll just put the other ticket on E-Bay or something."
House watched her stride across the office and back out the door to the conference room where she began collecting the dirty coffee mugs the team had left scattered around the table that morning.
He crossed to the door that linked his office with the conference room and leaned against the jamb.
"You don't have to do that, you know," he told her as she began washing out the mugs.
"If I don't do it, it won't get done." She looked at him pointedly. "No one else seems to give a crap."
"Ooh, now we're speaking in metaphors. I like this game. So if you're little Miss Fix It, so that must make me the mug?"
Cameron didn't smile. "That's right, House. You're the mug."
She pulled the mug out from under the faucet and shook off a few drops before turning abruptly and hurling it against the opposite wall.
House cocked his head to one side and pressed his lips together. "Now was that my leg or the date?"
Cameron ignored him. "See that?" She gestured to the red shards of glass that now littered the carpet and her desk. "I can't fix that. It's over, done, beyond repair. I know that. Doesn't mean I'm just going to leave it there for someone to cut themselves on."
"It's not your job to clean it up," House told her, forcing a shrug.
"I don't do it because it's my job. I do it because that's what any decent human being would do."
House looked away from her, shifted the grip on his cane. "So you sweep it up. You feel really good about yourself, but old mug here still ends up in the garbage at the end of the day."
Cameron shrugged and picked up one of the shattered pieces. "Maybe not. Maybe I make mosaics. One broken piece can complement another." She spun around and looked at him with narrowed eyes before he could make a comment. "But it doesn't matter because the mug is so determined to cut me whenever I go near it, that maybe I'm beginning to understand why everyone else is so eager to dump it in the trash."
The conversation had gone so far beyond ridiculous that even House couldn't make jokes. But somehow the absurdity of how they were discussing things made it easier for him to stay serious about what they were discussing.
"The mug's not trying to cut you. That's just what happens when you touch broken glass. And you seem to be the only idiot in the world who doesn't know that."
"So Stacy had the right idea? Abandon a sinking ship?"
House smirked slightly. "I thought we were talking about mugs."
"House."
"Hey, I'm just a mug. You start mixing metaphors and a simple-minded ceramic like me is bound to get confused. Lose the ships, sinking or otherwise."
"I've told you a hundred times: I don't want to change you. I don't want to fix you. I don't want you to pretend to be someone you're not. I like you. I like that you help people and that you're good at it. I like that you're funny. I like that you never say or do what people expect. You know that."
"I know that," he confirmed. "Though you understand why I doubt your sanity because of it."
"So can I ask you one question and can you for once give me a straight-up, honest answer?"
"Okay."
"What are you afraid of?"
He immediately regretted promising her honesty. He cleared his throat, trying to think of a lie she would believe. But he knew that somewhere along the way, she'd developed the ability to tell when he was lying to her.
"What are you afraid of?" she asked again, her hands on her hips, broken mug forgotten, or possibly the center of her attention.
"That maybe tomorrow or next month or next year, you'll wake up and you won't like those things. You'll hate that I'm twenty years older than you, that I was born without the ability to be nice, that I never admit that I'm wrong. And when that day comes, as it inevitably will, I'm afraid...."
"That I'll leave you?" she finished for him.
He said nothing as he watched the floor. He silently begged for their patient to crash, willed his beeper to go off.
"So you're basing your entire opinion of a hypothetical relationship on something you're afraid may happen at some unknown point in the future?"